HERE’S a tale of two journeys. It was the best of trips, it was the worst of trips. The train ride from the South Coast into London began well. Drawing out of Eastbourne with the early sun throwing the Downs into pastel shades, we stopped at Polegate and collected a shoal of schoolboys.

They were smartly dressed in blazers and ties and from a school in the foothills of remote Pakistan. They filled my carriage. Their English was immaculate and they seemed to be surviving the day without that ubiquitous fetish of the British teenager, the portable phone.

One lad, about 13 I’d guess, beamed at me as he came in and said: “Good morning sir – do you mind if I sit here?” I did not mind at all. It was a treat to see such a well-mannered boy and all his mates were the same. They didn’t run about. They didn’t shout either **** or ****. They didn’t even talk. They whispered or sat silently reading books. They didn’t mob the refreshments trolley.

I hesitated to intrude on their scholarly quiet but they were so agreeable I wanted to find out more.

It turned out they were on their way to a week’s tour of London. Once I’d broken the silence, the conversation flowed and they bombarded me with their polite questions.

Did the Queen live in London all the time?

Did I find the City oppressive? I said I did, rather and that, being a country boy from the North of England, I preferred a bit more greenery.

“Oh Sir, then you would love our village in Pakistan,” said one. I wished them well as they plunged into the hubbub of Victoria station.

On the way back, at Clapham Junction, we were graced by the arrival of representatives of the British underclass.

They threw themselves into the seats and each one immediately began to jabber into his or her portable phone. Their English was appalling and they didn’t seem to know even simple phrases such as “please” and “excuse me”. They said **** and **** all the time.

Soon I was suffused in a complicated bouquet of sweat, tinned beer and cheap scent which was quickly made even more sophisticated by the addition of the pong from the provender they began to scoff – stuff vile enough to put you off eating forever.

The ladies in the party were dressed for the heatwave, their acres of exposed flesh in blistering Technicolor – like boiled sweets halfunwrapped.

They put their feet on the seats. They were foul beyond mere rudeness to the attendant on the refreshments trolley. Then they began to squabble among themselves and the **** and **** quotient increased exponentially.

Wearying of such domestic bliss, some inserted their personal headphones and their “music” spilt loudly throughout the carriage.

From across the aisle there were looks of disapproval from the respectable people who were keeping themselves to themselves. Well, sort of.

Actually, you couldn’t help overhearing their drab rigmarole account of their day’s shopping: “Anyway, I told him before I set out that I might not be able to get his usual brand, but the one they’ve replaced it with is better in my opinion anyway. And then I thought we’d go for a cup of coffee…” Miles of this studied inconsequentiality. Like a free performance of Harold Pinter. I marvelled that so many could survive on so little.

Back in Eastbourne they were performing The Tempest in the park. I thought: “O brave new world that hath such people in it!”